Horse Attack

Let me set the stage. We’ve rented a beach-side apartment for the weekend in a tiny little village in Sicily. The place is so serene that the few birds and the waves are the loudest sounds you hear. We’ve invited our friend Janelle and her two children, Trenton, age 10, and Miranda, age 5, to drive the hour down to come to the beach with us.

The beach has no other people on it. A few fishermen line the rocks on either side of the beach casting their lines or fishing nets into the sea. We spend some time watching a young man waiting patiently, net in hand then stealthily creeping up to throw his net on unsuspecting fish as Peter, James or John might have in Bible times. Surprisingly to us, he was actually catching fish.

There’s a small fresh-water stream flowing to the sea between the road and the beach and to get to the beach it you have to wade across the stream. No problem for us. We had gladly gone through to have our precious time on what seemed to us to be our own private beach.

We had enjoyed watching the fishermen, the boats on the sea, and now we saw two men riding a small cart pulled by a beautiful dark, almost black, horse. They came down to the area where the stream was and our thoughts were they were going to let the horse have a drink. The horse was acting a bit nervous so he was probably tired and a drink would help him. But, no. One man got off and prodded the horse to cross the stream. Still, no worry, they had plenty of room to go around us.

The horse didn’t want to go into the stream but finally rushed through only to stop just two feet from where we were to show these men he didn’t want to go any further, especially through the soft sand that he and the cart were sinking into. We, of course backed off, but were unable to get our things out of the way before he really threw a fit, jumping around as frightened horses do, his feet tossing our blankets, chairs, books and drinks everywhere. We, with our quick thinking (or lack thereof), just stood there hoping we didn’t get hit by flying hooves or objects. (Don’t ever hire any of us adults as secret service agents because we never once thought, “Jump in front of the children.” We all just stood there dumbfounded.)

The men finally got him settled down and rode off down the beach, hooves and wheels sinking all the way. And we began the job of cleanup. What was their intention? Were they training him for something? Were they mad? We’ll never know but it was the only time I’ve gone to the beach to get attacked by a horse.-------------and my camera was back at the apartment.

More of Sicily

I really need to get better at posting. I've gotten lazy and apparently am in danger of taking Sicily for granted. I hope that never happens no matter how long we're here. It is too beautiful, breathtaking, actually to not appreciate every day the blessings of being here in paradise.

Yesterday Bob and I went to the annual garlic festival in Tre Castagni (Cost-ahn-yee) and walked among vendors offering goods from all over Sicily and some other nearby countries. If you've followed the blog you've heard that all towns have very special times for festivals each year. One festival is to honor the appointed saint of the town, another is for Carnivale just before Easter and the third is to honor the typical food of the area. There are, in addition to garlic festival, almond blossom festivals, artichoke festivals, apple, pear and peach festivals, numerous grape festivals, honey festivals and even a prickly pear festival. One for each town.

So last night we went to the garlic festival. Apparently I read the promotional clip from our on-base tour company because I was sure we would see a parade of the famous Sicilian horse carts that fascinate me so much. The carts are painted festively all over and I can't get enough of seeing them (which is a rare sight these days).

We didn't see any carts or parade but there were vendors selling garlic (and a few with red onions) everywhere. They pick them and either bunch them together or braid the tops together into these long chains.

We, of course, had to have a smaller version of the braid to put in our kitchen for decoration. Ours has only eighteen bulbs set on both sides of the braided tops and is hanging in our kitchen. Two things about garlic hanging in your kitchen: 1)You kitchen is protected from vampires. 2) You have to keep the windows open.

Mother's Day

This blog is hidden behind another because it's just a personal note and only slightly related to being in Italy. Please just chalk all this sentimentality up to it's being Mother's Day.

Today is Mother's Day and I am slightly sad only because communication is difficult and I may not get to talk to the kids today.

Bob and I discussed early in our marriage that we would never feel obligated to get each other gifts for Mother's or Father's Day because, after all, we weren't each other's mother or father. We would help and encourage the children to give but not do anything ourselves. So what he has done the past week has been especially thoughtful.

Bob has been so gracious in making sure I have a Mother's Day celebration. A week ago he bought me this beautiful Italian leather bag for my computer. I had seen it and really loved it but would never have bought it for myself (anything over $10 is too much). It was so expensive I told him I would have to sleep with it, carry it everywhere and keep it forever. When it starts falling apart I'll have to cut it up for key chains, wallets and other leather goods to keep on using it.

Last night we went to the annual garlic festival in Tre Castagni (cost-ahn-yee) where we walked the streets lined with vendors from all over Sicily, northern Africa, Romania (if that's were gypsys come from) and Morraco (yes, I know that's also northern Africa but it's part of my story)

At one vendor's booth we saw several things we loved. The nice man who manned the booth talked to us quite a bit (Did you know they speak English in Morraco?). He and his friend had brought decorative and useful pieces both new and antique and I fell in love. Anyone who knows me know that "stuff" is not important to me but occasionally I find something that touches my heart and I know it's something I'll love for a long, long time. I found this small Morracan chest that I fell in love with. I don't know why, it just touched me. No matter that I have no where to put it in our small house, no matter that it really has no use, it was beautiful. Bob wanted me to have it and he bought it for me saying it was a Mother's day gift.

But the sweetest thing was what he did this morning. Before we left for the base for church, Bob went out and brought me yellow roses from our yard. We live in what could be called a flower garden. Roses, jasmine, geranium, lavendar and a multitude of other flowers grow all around our house. The fact that Bob made sure I had flowers for Mother's Day touched me as nothing else he might do could.